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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23064436">Know your Enemies, Know your Friends</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliedwolves/pseuds/alliedwolves'>alliedwolves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Timelias Timeline [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Divergence, Don't think too hard unless you'd like to help that's most welcome, Gen, Instead of being paranoid about his officemates, Jon is Trying so Hard you guys, Mind Control, Multi, Placing this around Season 3 but in this timeline Elias is Tim before he gets the wrap for Leitner, Tim as Jonah's new vessel, but also this is very much an AU built on whim and fun and horrible things, overwriting of personhood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:47:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23064436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliedwolves/pseuds/alliedwolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>From Hawaiian shirts to pinstripes, and kayaking to Paperwork, Tim's friends Do Not Know Him. After not!Sasha, this is something of a cause for concern, and this time, Jonathon Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Archives, is not going to let his friend suffer. <br/>Jon slowly unpicks what the hell has been going on with Timothy Stoker ever since Elias's death.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Timelias Timeline [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I do not know him</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gertrude had to have been messing with the files, rather than simply being bad at her job. This was the fifth time he’d found an old, mouldering letter to an arcane-addled workaholic, breaking off whatever ties had once been held, rather than anything at all to do with the Stranger, or the Unknowing, or friends being otherwise altered beyond recognition. Jon ran his hands through his hair, wincing at the brittle, clean-ish feeling of dry shampoo residue and old hairsprays. He really ought to head back to his place, get a full night’s sleep.  It was getting late.</p><p>He checked his watch, grimacing when he read off what time it was. 12.34 am was not ‘heading out early’, Jon. His stomach rumbled, as though giving him a gentle heads up now his immediate schedule had been cleared that it might be sensible to feed himself.</p><p>The night bus being what it was, Jon didn’t think he was getting back to his flat this evening, relying instead on a frozen meal from the lunchroom freezer, and a breakfast bar from his desk drawer, and of course, far, <em>far </em>too much instant coffee and dry shampoo. Tricks he’d once shared with Tim, that he knew Tim had been starting to teach to Martin, in his way, before whatever dynamic they’d had had shattered.</p><p>Hissing out a breath, and letting a shaking, scarred palm scrape over his face, Jon stood up, ready to give over the research at least for the moment. He threw his notes loose into the desk’s top drawer, a system that had seemed to become more efficient of late.</p><p>He knew for instance that the papers on top were concerned with Robert Bell’s letters to one “James Wright” describing a series of nightmares that had befallen him and his partner that were the reason he would no longer remain Wright’s confidante, and beneath that, the tape recorder held a statement about the intensity of Wright’s regard within Edgar Hepburn’s dreams. It didn’t make any sense.</p><p>Tomorrow. Well, later today. Jonathon Sims, you need to get to your office cot, if you can’t make it to your bed.</p><p>He huffed a quiet laugh when he realised the mental scolding had sounded like it had come from Martin, like the long-cold cup of chamomile tea sat accusingly beside the large, coffee-stained mug that he’d finished distractedly… time ago. He took the little cup with him, sipping at it. Despite how cold it was, it seemed to warm him, a little. It was nice to be thought of. He would have to redouble his efforts to trust his workmates, when they were back in the office tomorrow.</p><p>That did not include Tim.  </p><p>Despite the hour, Tim would still be in of course, but he seemed to have developed new tricks to remaining fresh-pressed and bright-eyed no matter how long he stayed at the institute. Jon ground his teeth. <em>Timothy </em>always turned out well. And exceedingly well dressed. And within every scruple of the Institute dress code.</p><p>It didn’t make any sense. With the Stranger’s Sasha, no one but Melanie had noticed. That was how it <em>worked, </em>how it accrued horror, rather than concern. There was only one person who knew and they suffered and feared as a result. And supposedly they’d looked nothing like Sasha, an original form vague and frustratingly near to Jon’s mind’s eye, but forever too far to know who he was mourning.</p><p>Timothy looked like Tim. He had the same voice, just different inflections, the same worm scars, still dashingly pulled off, and the same callouses from rock climbing that were slowly fading from office work and hand cream that smelled of musk and bergamot. Tim's eyes had definitely not been a piercing blue that struck at you if you met them, that he <em>did </em>remember and was never likely to forget. </p><p>Just like the original set of Tim’s face when he was thinking of nothing in particular, the colour of Tim's eyes were starting to fade from Jon’s memory.</p><p>He wouldn’t let it. Would get Tim back from Timothy. He had to know, and figure out what the <em>fuck </em>was <em>Timothy Stoker’s deal. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bonechilling research</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Martin discuss Timothy Stoker.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Statement ends.”</p><p>Jon clicked the tape recorder off, and furiously rubbed his fingertips over his scalp, fiddling with and almost tearing out any knots he found there. This was getting repetitive. There wasn’t any help here that he could find, even going back over Gertrude’s statements. He tossed up whether or not to even bother recording his supplemental. The speed of his hands slowed, then at last he extracted them from his hair. No. There was no reason to get <em>sloppy </em>simply because no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find any statements involving changed body parts <em>and </em>changed personalities.</p><p>“Supplemental. This is yet another statement involving <em>“The Boneturner”, </em>and while it is admittedly the first I’ve read not to mention Jared Hopworth, Jay, or another exceedingly clear alias, there is nothing to suggest that the personality changes from this clinic are anything more than gender euphoria, body horror, or the result of having seen others changed. Not one of these changes involved the brain. I don’t know if that is because that is yet another fear: one of not being who one is, perhaps, or our old acquaintance the Circus, or even the shifting creature that calls itself by Michael. I. Don’t. Know. There doesn’t seem to be anything here that would tell me. Another dead end."</p><p>The familiar sound of a door opening startled him, and he whipped around, sure that he had summoned Michael merely by mentioning his name. Martin blinked down at him, a cup of cool tea in hand.</p><p>“Jon, I’m going out to lunch a bit later than usual, did you want to-? I know you tend to get out later than I do, so I figured you hadn’t gone yet… But if you’re still working—”</p><p>Jon heaved a sigh out, his heart returning to a steadier beat in his chest.</p><p>“No. No, Martin I think that’s a good—”</p><p>“Jesus, Jon, I can hear your heart thumping from here! You really ought to take a break after statements if they bother you like this. Was it a spider one?”</p><p>Jon huffed out a laugh, harsh features softened by a smile. Figures that Martin had picked up on that one. Two weeks ago, before Elias’s funeral, he’d have been worried that Martin was trying to learn his weaknesses. Now even if that was the case, he wasn’t sure it mattered.</p><p>“No, just. It has some implications. Let me grab my coat.”</p><p>The tape recorder turned itself off when it caught the rustle of cloth that meant the grabbing of outside clothing.</p><p>Jon frowned down at it. No wonder things were getting to him.</p>
<hr/><p>The Wetherspoons was quiet, this time of day. That suited them both, Jon hunkering down into a corner booth and Martin picking up the orders from the front. He came back with the 2 pies, and an unrequested double side of vegetables that he pushed in front of Jon, blandly smiling when Jon started to protest.</p><p>Jon shut up and picked out some cauliflower and carrots.</p><p>The pies demanded silence for a while, Jon not having had food more solid than protein bars for a while, and Martin happy to sit quietly, and wait for whatever was bothering him to rise to the surface of Jon’s slow boiling paranoia.</p><p>“Martin. Have you noticed anything odd about Tim?”</p><p>Martin grimaced. “You mean besides him transforming into Oscar Wilde’s evil great grandnephew? I’m not stupid, Jon.”</p><p>Jon’s mouth shut, nodding twice.</p><p>“Right. Right, sorry. It’s just that. You know how only Melanie noticed when Sasha changed, I wanted to make sure it wasn’t another one of those. You know?”</p><p>“Oh.” Martin blinked. “I mean, he hasn’t had any trouble getting authenticated by the computer, or any of those other things that make sense in retrospect? So, I mean, I presumed it had to be something different.”</p><p>“Oh.” Jon drummed his fingers on the table, pulling his hands underneath the counter-top as though burned when another customer turned to look at them. He continued the drumming on the softer surface of his leg, more surreptitious, and soon it was only Martin whose worried regard he could feel pressing on him.</p><p>“I’ve been looking into the statements. Trying to find whether this has happened before, whether there’s some Leitner, or reoccurring figure, who could do this to someone. I can’t leave it alone. Not if I can help him.” Like he couldn’t help Sasha. Like he’d never pushed Tim away by following him home. Once again, his hands raked through his hair, before he put them down on the desk.</p><p>Martin tentatively reached for him, settling his hands equidistant across the booth counter.</p><p>“Listen, Jon. I can try and do some follow-up on those statements. I won’t mention it to Timothy, and you won’t mention my shoddy qualifications, if you’re still needing leverage to tru—”</p><p>Jon shook his head, closing that little distance, fingertips just barely touching.</p><p>“Martin. There's... there's been a lot of changes, in the institute. And the staff. I don't want to stay as paranoid as I've been, I'm trying to-- I don’t know if it’s because the worst has already happened, but. I can trust you. With that.” Jon pulled back to resume his quiet drumming on his legs. “I just wish I had more information on this. On all of it. What the tape recorder statements have in common, what the <em>things </em>that aren’t Leitner and his books, or the Circus, can do.”</p><p>Martin nodded, straightening his glasses on his face. “I’ll have a look.” He said.</p><p>Neither of them made any move back to the institute. A mute consensus reached, Jon went up and grabbed two half pints, and a packet of crisps, to come back and plan.</p>
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